Losing Days
by GhostGenocide
Summary: "So you want me to pretend to be your stupid fiancé because you hate people feeling sorry for you." That's exactly what it was, but Kyle refused to acknowledge it. Not when he had to say it so bluntly, at least. He'd already felt stupid enough already. - CRYLE, STYLE
1. Chapter 1

**Authors Note:** I'm really not good at summaries, but this first chapter will definitely give you the idea of what the hell it's all about. AKA Kyle bribing Craig to pretend to be Stan.

**Main Pairings:** Craig/Kyle, Stan/Kyle  
**Minor Pairings:** Clyde/Tweek, Kenny/Wendy, Stan/Gary

It's been over two years since I've written for SP, so I hope it's not too bad and you enjoy! Your thoughts are always appreciated.

* * *

It was almost dark out when Kyle finally heard the lock on the front door come undone and the sound of heavy, tired footsteps.

"Stan, is that you?"

No answer, other than an abundance of familiar noise as they stomped off as much mud as they could at the door before kicking off their shoes into the usual pile. From his place leaning over the island counter of their cozy Manhattan kitchen with a magazine in hand, Kyle peeked over his shoulder to see Stan emerge from the narrow entryway, soaked from head to toe.

"It's nuts out there," Stan complained as he shucked off his coat and tossed it over a barstool. He shook his head, sprinkling everything around him with rainwater, including Kyle. He laughed. "I feel like a dog."

"It wouldn't surprise me if you actually _were_ one," Kyle huffed as he shielded his magazine. He sat up a bit straighter, preparing to give Stan a welcome-home kiss. "You're home late today—is everything alright?"

"Oh, yeah." He nodded and took a quick look at the magazine in Kyle's hand before making a beeline for the fridge. Kyle rolled his eyes and slumped back down against the counter. "Just had a lot of work to do. It's almost summer, so you know how everyone wants to get their finances in order before going on vacation and everything."

"Yeah, I totally get what you mean," He didn't. Kyle didn't have the slightest clue of what it was that Stan actually did throughout his day as a junior executive for Goldman Sachs, but he pretended like he did because the last time Stan tried to explain his job to him, it sounded as if not even _Stan _had an actual idea what he did for a living in that towering building six blocks from home.

"How about you? Good day at work?"

"Very good, considering I had the day off," Kyle said with a grin. "And _since_ I had the day off, I've had some time to relax and go over some of the wedding plans. I think you'll want to hear about them." He waited for Stan to get the hint and turn around, but Stan was far too occupied with shuffling through the contents of their almost-empty fridge. "Stan?"

"Huh?"

"Did you hear what I just said?"

Stan stood up straight and turned to Kyle with a beer in hand. "You were talking?"

"Yes, about the _wedding_," Kyle slapped the back of his hand to the magazine, trying to show it to his more-than-oblivious fiancé. Photos of extravagant wedding cakes and decorations littered the page while small handwritten notes lined the edges. "Have you finally thought about what kind of cake we should get? Because I've got a few ideas if not."

Stan frowned. "I dunno."

"You don't know?"

He shrugged. "Is it that important to figure out right now? I'm really just… I'm not in the mood."

"You're never in the mood!" Kyle sighed and tossed the magazine down on the counter. "The wedding's in less than two month and we still haven't decided on the color scheme, had invitations made, or even looked into catering! If we keep waiting, we're not going to have any time _left!"_

Stan cracked the top off the bottle with the edge of the counter and took a swig, falling back against the wall across from the fuming redhead. He combed his fingers down through his hair in its usual style before pinching the bridge of his nose and squeezing his eyes shut in annoyance.

"I know, Kyle."

"Then why don't you help me with these things? I'm not going to plan our wedding alone, Stan!"

He was trying to stay calm. He really was.

"_Because_, Kyle."

"I'm serious. If you're just going to get drunk again tonight and not help me, then—"

Stan guzzled the rest of his beer down and tossed the empty bottle into the trash, cutting Kyle off from his tangent before he could really get into it.

"You know what? Maybe we should take a break." Stan suggested frustratedly as he threw his hands in the air. He went for another and popped the top, giving Kyle—who's eyed had widened in astonishment—ample time to soak in what'd just come out of his mouth.

"Take a break?" he asked, unsure whether or not he'd heard the man standing in front of him correctly. "_Please_ tell me you've had a few drinks before you came home, because there's no way in hell you could possibly be serious right now."

"Dude, I'm totally sober… well, for now atleast," Stan said with a bit of a chuckle. "But no, I'm being serious about us taking a break. I think it'd be good for us."

Kyle wasn't sure what Stan meant exactly when he said it'd be good for them, but he was certain that something was definitely wrong with Stan… Or was there something wrong with _him?_ Or—

"Are you seeing someone else?" Kyle suddenly blurted out. "Do they work with you? Do they know you're _engaged?"_

"What? No—!"

"They _don't _know?"

"I mean no, there's nobody else!"

"Then why would you even suggest we take a break!" Kyle was practically shouting now. "Or was that supposed to be some sort of joke? Because let me tell you, Stan, that wasn't funny at all."

Stan palmed the back of his neck, dropped his shoulders in defeat and joined Kyle at the counter. He didn't look him in the eye when he said, "I wasn't kidding." Kyle crossed his arms over his chest and waited for Stan to explain. "Seriously dude, I'm not joking." Stan sighed. "I've actually been thinking about it for a little while now. Maybe spending time apart would be good for us, you know?"

"Good for us?"

"Yeah. I think we could both benefit from some space!"

As far as Kyle knew, the two of them barely spent any time together as it was with their hectic work schedules. While Stan's job kept him stuck at the office most of the day, Kyle's had him holed up in his study at odd hours throughout the night, working on the stacks of civil case files that'd seemed to take over the spare corners of the apartment.

He wanted to ask what exactly Stan meant by 'space', but all he could think about were the implications.

"Look Stan, I understand if you're still nervous about everything, but we can't push the wedding back any further. We've already had to do it three times because you won't stop freaking out, and my mother's going to kill us if—"

"I'm not saying we have to reschedule!"

"Then what exactly _do_ you suggest we do? Because if you haven't forgotten, we're leaving for South Park tomorrow to get everything set up for the wedding!"

"Well, I kind of have an idea—"

"Oh lord."

"Wait, just hear me out!" Stan put his hands up. "What if you go back home… while I stay here?"

Kyle had officially reached his limit. "How stupid can you possibly be?"

"Wow. Rude?"

"You think that's rude? Rude is suggesting I go back home for _our_ wedding _alone_, while you stay here and do what-the-hell-ever it is you do at work, getting drunk and watching _The Price is Right!"_

"Hey, it's _Let's Make a Deal_. And I've got a lot of work to do, Kyle—"

"I don't care, I'm not getting married by myself!"

"Wait, what?" Stan's brows knotted together in confusion. Perhaps he hadn't of been clear. "You wouldn't be getting married to yourself, dude. I'd totally be there!"

"You just told me to go back home alone!"

"You wouldn't be alone for the whole time, though! I just meant for like, the first week or something," Stan clarified, then laughed. "How could I not show up to my own wedding?"

Though Kyle felt a bit more relieved, he still wasn't too happy about the fact that Stan believed the two of them needed some time apart, almost a month before the big day, no less.

"You really think this would be a good idea?"

"I think it'd be a _great _idea. You get total control over the wedding like you've always wanted, I'll be able to get started on this crazy massive project for work, and we'll both get some much needed space!" Stan assured him. "Besides, you know what they say—farness makes the heart stronger. Or something like that."

"Distance makes the heart grow fonder." Kyle mumbled under his breath with an eye roll. He never wanted total control over the wedding like Stan seemed to believe, and he definitely didn't need any space, either. "What crazy massive project for work do you have to do?"

"Hmm? Oh, I'm not too sure yet on the details. All I know is that it's supposed to be a really important client, and they specifically requested for me to work with them. I'll find out on Monday."

"You don't even know what the big deal is and you're willing to put it ahead of our wedding?"

"It's my first big deal that I'll be working on alone!" Stan exclaimed. "You should be excited for me, Kyle!"

Kyle sighed. "I _am _happy for you, Stan."

"No. _Excited!_"

"Is there a difference?"

"Uh, yeah? We should be celebrating," Stan said as if it were common sense. He went to the fridge once more, going for his third beer in the past fifteen minutes. Kyle hoped silently it'd be his last, and decided that he'd intervene if not. "How does chinese for dinner sound? That and Mortal Kombat. I'll help you finish packing later."

Though he wasn't too happy about the turn of events, he couldn't say no to two of his favorite things. Besides, who knew—maybe after a fun evening together spent inside, Stan would even change his mind and decide to head home to South Park together like they'd originally planned.

Kyle smirked.

Maybe.

* * *

Or not.

Because while he'd been hopeful that perhaps letting Stan have an extra two or three or five beers would get him to warm up to the idea of coming along, he forgot to factor in Stan's definite next morning hangover from hell, and how peeling him off the couch would be next to near impossible unless it involved an all you can eat pasta buffet and aspirin.

Needless to say, Kyle's idealistic romantic theory had totally backfired and he was forced to board the midday flight out of NYC and into Denver alone.

"Kyle! My bubbelah!" his mother had shouted and pulled him in for a hug worthy of breaking at least six of his ribs as soon as he'd gotten off the plane. He hoped his laptop screen wasn't cracked.

"Hey, Mom."

"I'm so glad you're finally home! Oh my goodness, you're so _thin_—have you eaten yet, today? You know you've got to eat often because—"

"Where's Dad? And Ike?"

"Oh, they're at home. They're so excited to see you, we shouldn't be wasting time standing here! Let's go pick up your bags so we can get going. I've still got to put dinner on!" Sheila pulled at her son's shoulder bag strap.

Kyle wasn't sure whether to be happy that his mother was so gung-ho about getting the hell out of that moldy airport or to dread the hour and a half car ride back to his childhood home alone with only her and her game of 20 Questions.

Speaking of which, it was only a matter of time before she noticed…

"Wait, where's Stan? Shouldn't he be with you?"

_God dammit._

"He had to stay back. For work." Kyle gave her the line he'd rehearsed the whole trip. Still, it didn't come out sounding as nonchalant as he'd hoped it would. It definitely had a bit of a hostile kick to it. "He'll be here next week, though. He sends his love."

"Oh how sweet!" she gushed and continued to drag Kyle towards the exit. "It's a shame he couldn't come with you, Kyle. I was going to make a _wonderful_ roast, but perhaps I should hold off until he gets here for that. Why, I haven't seen that boy in so long, I can hardly remember what he looks like!"

Her cackle that followed after made Kyle and a few other passing folks jolt.

The walk to the car was spent in much needed silence, and Kyle used those (precious) few seconds to get himself ready for the next wave of nosey questions.

"What has he been up to, anyway? Still working for that bank—"

"Goldman Sachs."

"Right! Right, that's what it was. Oh, put your seatbelt on, Kyle. I don't want us to get pulled over. You wouldn't _believe_ how much the fines have gone up this past year!" Kyle nodded, not really caring. "Oh, but you're a lawyer! I'm sure you could get us out of a tight spot if need be. My handsome little man, just like his father."

"Mom, stop. _Please,_" He leaned away from Sheila's attempts at pinching his cheek. "I'm not a child anymore! You don't need to do that."

"You're right, you're right." Sheila said, and Kyle wasn't sure whether or not he'd just actually heard her say that. "You're a grown man now, who's gone off and started his new life in Vermont—"

"New York."

"And even though I'd rather you marry a nice Jewish girl, I'm so proud that you've found yourself an equally wonderful man to be with! And he makes a lot of money… what a catch!"

Kyle rolled his eyes.

"...Well?"

"What?"

"He does make a lot, right?" Sheila pried.

"What does it even matter?" Kyle seriously did not want to have this discussion.

"A mother needs to know that her son is well taken care of!"

"I can take care of myself, Mom!" he snapped. "I don't need Stan to do that!"

"Well._ Someone's_ a little touchy. Must be because a certain fi-an-cé couldn't make it."

Kyle would have rather walked home.

Or, actually, he would have rather walked back to South Park and got a hotel, because being back home again turned out to be an absolute nightmare.

The house felt a lot more cramped than it had ever been. With Ike back home for the summer from art school, antagonizing his older brother seemed to be the only thing to keep Ike entertained. Then again, maybe Kyle could have started off with something other than, "What do you mean you're back home for the summer? Why do you even get a summer break? What's so stressful about painting pictures?" Surely, Ike hadn't appreciated the condensation which he'd of had to have gotten from their parents enough already for even _attending _art school. Kyle really should've thought before opening his mouth.

Then there was his father who was hardly around, which was to be expected since he _was_ South Park's only (semi) competent lawyer. But there was definitely something up between Gerald and Sheila, because it seemed as if he went out of his way to avoid her specifically. Not to mention, what was up with all the cats? Kyle didn't remember having cats.

Or the deadbolt lock on the basement… from the inside.

The questions from his mother never seemed to end. From the moment they stepped foot in the house, all the way until Kyle had excused himself early from dinner to go lay down, he was sure he'd managed to evade enough questions to fill an autobiography. Worst of all were the pity-filled comments she felt were necessary to add in when he wanted nothing more than for her to shut up. Things like, "Oh, you'll be sleeping all alone without Stan! That's so sad," and, "Ike, don't be so mean to Kyle right now! He's upset because Stan won't be here til next week. Have some sympathy!"

She'd even told the waitress at the restaurant the next day, "We'd be ordering for three, but my poor son's fiancé can't be here right now. Shame, since their wedding is so soon! Why, Kyle, I hope he makes it in time!" That was when Kyle vowed to never leave the house again, at least until Stan arrived and the two of them could get their own hotel room.

Kyle sighed and fell back onto his bed, eyeing the glow-in-the-dark stick on stars that still littered his ceiling from childhood. It was nearing day five, and cabin fever had set in long ago.

But that was alright, because it would all be over soon when Stan got there. He could hold out for just two more days. Just two more days and he'd be up in the nearest Holiday Inn, ordering room service and only having to subject himself to awkward family gatherings when it was absolutely necessary, and with_ Stan_. There'd be more no more of his mother's looks of pity and worry that her son was actually forever alone.

Kyle felt his phone vibrate against his thigh, and he fished it out of his pocket.

**hey dude. u still awake? - STAN**

Kyle grinned and rolled over to better situate himself so that he could respond back to his fiancé.

_It's only 6:30, of course I'm still up. What're you up to? - KYLE_

**o lol i forgot the time difference wasnt that bad. nothin. lot of work to catch up on - STAN**

_Yeah? Hopefully you can. Can't wait til you get here. My mom is driving me insane! - KYLE_

_How'd that big work project turn out, by the way? - KYLE_

**u tell me all the time about ur mom lol. sorry. but yeah about that - STAN**

_About what? My mom? - KYLE_

**no work - STAN**

**i dont think i can make it out on monday - STAN**

_What do you mean? Why? - KYLE_

He waited a minute, to give Stan some time to type out the message that would surely say **'jk dude'** or **'ill actually be coming earlier than that'** but as the clock over his desk ticked with every passing second, he felt his resolve crumble along with it.

Before it had even been a full minute, he was calling Stan to figure out what the hell was going on.

"Hey—"

"What are you talking about? Why can't you come on Monday?"

"Woah, hold on. Can't you at least say hello first?"

Kyle rolled his eyes and pushed his hair back away from his forehead. "This isn't a joke, Stan! You said you'd be here on Monday—that was the agreement! You stay back for a week, then fly out to South Park to help plan the wedding and help me deal with my family!" He was shaking, and his grip was so tight around his phone that it was a miracle it didn't break into pieces. On the other end, there was silence.

"Hello? Stan?"

"I'm sorry, dude," Stan sighed. "But I just—I really can't make it."

"Why not?"

"Well, it's because of that major project. I haven't even met the client yet because they had to reschedule until next week, but I did at least get to learn a little about what I'll be working with! Actually, I've _been_ working on it. It's… I guess you can say a church organization? But not really? The dude who I'm supposed to meet with is supposed to be _crazy _loaded, wants me to help scout out some places and stocks he can invest in. Apparently he's so rich he can't even manage his own money—"

"I don't _care, _Stan!" Kyle snapped. "Jesus—I feel like you care more about this dumb client than you do about us!"

"What? No way, that's not true, Kyle!" Stan's voice rose. "It's just that this is my first actual job alone and it's super important to me, dude!"

"_We're _important, _dude!"_

Stan paused. "Was that sarcasm just now, because it definitely sounded like sarcasm. And you know, it's kinda hard to tell when you're talking over the phone and there's no social cues, and—"

"So you seriously have to stay back another week?"

"Yeah. Yeah, I do. I'm sorry."

Kyle sighed and rolled over onto his back again. "It's whatever. It's not like I need you here right now anyway. Dance rehearsal doesn't even start until the week after next."

"You're actually gonna go through with our first dance?"

He could hear the grin in Stan's voice and it made him blush. "Only because you wanted to do it."

"It's tradition, man! Who has a wedding without a first dance?"

"I'd be quite happy to be the first if that's the case. You know I hate dancing."

"Only because you can't," Stan laughed. "But hey! That's alright, it'll be fun! It's not that hard."

"Whatever," Kyle fought hard to keep a smile from forcing it's way onto his lips. He looked over at his door, which he'd been sure to have locked for obvious reasons. Five days was a long time to be alone, and it'd been even longer since the two of them had actually been intimate.

Kyle gave his best attempt at sounding sultry. "So hey, what're you… you know?"

"Huh? What am I what?"

"What are you _doing_."

What sounded like someone chewing on rocks caught Kyle off guard. "Oh, just winding down for the day. Eating pretzels. Playing Battlefield. You?"

Stan was an idiot.

"I miss you."

"I miss you too, dude. I'll see you soon, though. Don't—_shit, motherfucker just shot me!_" Stan dropped the phone for a second to curse a bit more. "Sorry, this jackass who's supposed to be on my team just shot me! Totally ruined my killstreak. But like I was saying, don't worry about it so much. Okay?"

Kyle rolled his eyes. "No, I mean. I miss you."

"Yeah, and I miss you too. I especially miss how awesome of a team we make in Battlefield. Hey, actually, you have an Xbox there, right?"

"But I _really _miss you," Kyle tried again, starting to feel exasperated. "Seriously, Stan. Do I have to spell it out for you or something?"

"What—Oh. Ohhhh."

"It's been tough having to be here all alone without you. And we didn't even get to say goodbye properly…" Kyle let his free hand wander down to the belt of his jeans, toying with the buckle, waiting. "And the fact that I'll have to wait a whole nother week to be with you sucks. But I mean, maybe since we're both free right now, we can make up for lost time…" Kyle rolled his eyes internally at himself. He was never good at initiating phone sex, or phone sex in general. But desperate times called for desperate measures.

"Yeah, but—fuck, _again!?_—right now isn't really a good time. I'm just not in the mood, and like, you're back home and all I can think of is how Ike is totally in the next room over and how weird your mom is and this douchebag is seriously grinding my gears oh my _god _who gave him a controller!"

Kyle shook his head in disappointment.

"Fucking incredible," he mumbled as he rolled onto his side, officially having had it with Stan. No amount of phone sex was worth putting up with that. "Do you hear yourself right now? Are you even _aware_ of the fact that I'm hundreds of miles away and I'm in _need_?"

Stan snorted.

"_Now_ what?"

"Dude, Kyle. That sounded so gay."

"I hate you so much right now."

"I'm sorry, I'm sorry! I was just kidding, jeez. You know I love you, Kyle."

"You're gay."

"Shit, I walked right into that one," Stan groaned as Kyle laughed. "Hey, I'm gonna go, alright? I'll call you tomorrow when I'm at the laundromat. Maybe uh, then we can. You know. Talk."

Kyle frowned at the fact that Stan was urging him off the phone so soon when they'd hardly talked that past week, though he felt a bit of nervous excitement bubble in the pit of his stomach at the proposal. However, while his dick had sort of been doing a lot of the thinking the past few minutes, Kyle wasn't completely blind to the hilarious image of Stan having whispered phone sex in a laundromat bathroom while wild children ran around screaming and college students utilized the free wifi just on the other side of the door.

"You're probably going to regret that. You know that, right?" Kyle asked, the smirk in his voice obvious. On the other end of the line, Stan couldn't help but smirk, too.

"Probably. Definitely." He held his breath. "Can we maybe—"

"Nope. You owe me."

_"Goddammit."_

Someone pounding their fist on the wall caught Kyle's attention.

"Can you keep it down? Nobody wants to hear you phone fucking your boyfriend!" Ike shouted from his room, sounding like an annoyed, angsty sixteen year old. What was his problem? Kyle figured art school had really turned his little brother into a total dick.

"He's not my _boyfriend,_ he's my _fiancé!_" Kyle shouted back. "_And we're not phone fucking!_"

"Ike?" Stan asked.

"Yeah," Kyle sighed. "He's just pissed at me all the time and I don't even know why! See, this is why I was totally against him going to the Art Institute, man. They're all a bunch of stuck up snobs there!"

"_I heard that!_"

"Good!"

"You sure you didn't, uh, say something to upset him, maybe?" Stan asked cautiously.

"Like what? _Hello?_"

"I'm serious," Stan laughed. "Alright, for real this time. I'll call you tomorrow."

"Fine. I guess I'll let you go. I've... got a lot of stuff to work on, anyways," Kyle lied. Sure, there was an abundance of preparations for the wedding to finish, but there weren't any that he could work on alone at this point. "Love you, Stan."

"Love you, too. Goodnight."

"Good—"

Stan disconnected before he had a chance to finish.

Kyle pushed himself up to sit on the edge of the bed and dropped his head into his hands, letting out the breath of air he was unaware he'd even been holding. Now he was forced to stay holed up in his childhood bedroom for another week, when he was already losing his mind and he wasn't even through with the first one.

Not to mention—what would his mother say when she heard about the news? He couldn't handle any more pitiful comments. He didn't want to think about it.

He stood up and grabbed his boots.

He needed to get out of that house for a little while.

* * *

On the other side of town outside an old, outdated movie theater, Craig Tucker sighed.

"The next one will be playing at seven-thirty," he repeated for what had to be the fourteenth time that hour, despite the show times being clearly listed on the board behind him. He felt like he was sixteen all over again, manning the ticket booth and having to deal with people's stupidity upfront and firsthand like he did for so many years before being rightfully promoted to his current title of theater manager.

Craig had thought that being in charge would mean never having to deal with dumb questions like those ever again, but apparently that wasn't the case. It actually just meant the added responsibility of having to pick up the slack when other employee's called out sick (like tonight) and having to put up with customer complaints, all for a measly salary of just under twenty-five thousand. Not nearly as much as he felt he should be making, let alone to even live comfortably from.

"Will there be anymore after the seven-thirty one?"

"Maybe. I dunno. Let me check," He made a show of turning around and looking up at the board, trying to make a point. "Yup. Two more."

"What times?"

"Nine and eleven-thirty," Craig squeezed out between gritted teeth.

After a few more gratingly obvious questions and inquiries about the current films, the man eventually bought a ticket and went inside, finally leaving Craig alone to his own devices.

Almost twenty minutes passed without another movie-goer to bother him, and Craig silently thanked the heavens for some much needed peace and solitude. He took the time to drop to his knees and replace the ticket paper in the printer since it'd been running low for the past hour, and then would have been as good of a time as any to get it out of the way.

"Stupid printer," he grumbled to himself as he tore out the last of the remaining paper that had managed to get jammed. The last time he had to fix a jammed ticket printer was almost four years ago when he was twenty-two and actually worked the ticket booth, before getting promoted to manager.

"I hate these damned thing."

He jerked the printer around a little harder upon the realization that he'd been doing this for four years, ripping out the pieces of shredded paper that jammed the mechanisms inside and reloading it with a fresh roll.

No, not four years. Longer than that. After all, he'd been working there since he was sixteen.

_Ten years._

"Dammit!" He pounded his fist on the printer and it whirred back to life, printing out a couple of test tickets. He sighed and hung his head, trying to calm down from the unwelcome thoughts.

This was only going to be a temporary job through college. His life wasn't supposed to turn out like this. By now, he was supposed to be in California, producing some of the biggest films of his time while sharing a comfortable apartment with his dog, Charlie. But instead, here he was: a twenty-six year old film school dropout and still stuck in South Park. All he had going for him was a stupid job-turned-career that he didn't want in the least.

While Craig mulled over his life decisions on the floor of the ticket booth, he was completely unaware of another person's looming presence waiting at the window above him, whose patience was beginning to wear thin.

"Hey, is anyone in there?"

Startled, Craig slammed his head against the underside of the counter when he stood up a little too fast.

"Fuck! God dammit, I swear," He squeezed his eyes shut as he pressed his hand to his head, the pressure helping to mask the ache. He probably should've watched what came out of his mouth to the customers, but at that particular moment in time, he couldn't give a—

"Craig?"

Hearing his name said like that made a chill run up his spine.

He forced himself to open his eyes, only to find the last person he'd ever expect to be standing on the other side of the glass, an inch or two under six foot with flaming red curls and tired dark green eyes.

"What do you want, Broflovski."

Kyle looked taken aback. "You're still here, dude?"

Craig wasn't sure whether he meant here as in South Park, or here as in the movie theater. Either way, he doesn't give him an answer, because both are equally as embarrassing and just repeats the question once more.

"What do you want, Broflovski."

"Still as pleasant as I remember, I see." Kyle muttered and scanned Craig up and down, as if he were judging him. Though Craig was doing his best to keep it cool, his skin prickled all over out of sheer nervous anxiety, because seriously—what the hell was Kyle Broflovski doing back there, and for what reason?

"I _want _to get the hell out of this shithole town, but that's not going to happen for a while. So I figured I'd at least go see a movie or something. I'm bored as shit."

Craig wanted to ask. He wanted to know what the point of coming back to South Park was if it was such a shithole, especially when he actually managed to leave. And from what he'd heard through the grapevine, AKA Kenny's loud ass mouth, Kyle was doing pretty well for himself.

Instead though,Craig just stared at him, uninterested. Which was sort of hard to do, when he hadn't seen Kyle in a little over eight years and it was crazy to see just how much (and little, in some cases) he'd changed.

"So, any movie suggestions?"

"I can suggest you go away," Craig said without thinking it over. Because why should he? He was certain those three idiots would be out of his life for good eight years ago, and he had no intentions of ever dealing with any of them again. _Especially_ not this one.

"What the fuck, Craig. What's your problem? I thought we were on good terms last time we hung out." Kyle snapped defensively. "It's not my fault you're still stuck working here, so you don't have to take it out on me. I've got enough shit to put up with."

The last time they _'hung out'_ was the summer road trip to Disney World that their two groups of friends had planned to take together after high school, and even then the two of them hardly spoke one-on-one, because Kyle always had his head up Stan's ass.

Craig's stomach suddenly dropped at the thought of that fumbling idiot, because if Kyle was here, that had to mean that Stan was, too.

"Wow. Must be tough. Now buy a ticket or go away."

"I know you're just being an asshole, but yeah, things _are _tough right now. Especially since I have nobody to talk to. I'm stuck in my mom's house for a whole month with nobody else but my obnoxious family, because fucking _Stan _decided to bail on me last minute and—"

"I don't care."

"You _should_ care!"

"Well I don't. I don't care, and I don't want to be roped into your brand of crazy ever again. Things have been nice and quiet without you guys to stir up shit around here, and I'd prefer to keep it that way." It's the most he's ever said to him in a single setting, and they're not the words he'd rehearsed over and over in the hotel bathroom before heading out to Magic Kingdom for the fireworks show.

He'd sort of expected for Kyle to either (a) continue his shit fit, or (2) storm off in the opposite direction after that, but Kyle wasn't angry. Or at least, it didn't _seem _like he was. Kyle was looking at him with knitted brows and curious green eyes, a sort of glaze over them as if he were thinking.

"What."

Kyle ran a hand back through his hair, the other on his hip.

"Holy shit," he scoffed. "You look just like him."

"What."

"Okay, so not _exactly _like him, but like—okay, I think this could maybe work."

"_What."_

"What are you doing tomorrow?"

Craig's thought process skipped a beat. He didn't know how to answer that, because he was 99.6% certain that this wasn't about making dinner reservations, and definitely about tricking him into some crazy ass scheme that he'd just came up with on the spot.

"That depends."

"On?"

"How much you're paying me."

"How much would it cost for you to come for dinner at my parent's house?"

Craig didn't know what to say, mostly because he wasn't actually being serious about the whole paying him thing, but apparently Kyle thought otherwise.

Was it supposed to be some sort of trap?

"What."

"I'll pay you to come have dinner tomorrow night at my place," Kyle repeated. "I… I need you to pretend to be Stan."

Oh, hell no.

"Fuck off, Broflovski." It was Craig's turn to snap that time, his usual cold and unamused demeanor cracking to show hints of actual disgust and anger. And to think, a small part of him actually thought Kyle wanted to hang out.

"Wait, listen. Just hear me out," Kyle put his hands up, as if that'd help make Craig feel more amiable towards the idea of being a stand in for that moron. But because Craig didn't hate Kyle nearly as much as he hated Stan, he at least decided to listen to his plea.

"I know it's completely out of left field, and I know it's awkward as fuck, but I really need you to come over for dinner tomorrow and just pretend to be Stan. Seriously, I wouldn't be asking you of all people to do something like this if it wasn't absolutely necessary, but it is." He paused for a breath, and to make sure that Craig was still listening. He was. "You see, Stan and I are getting married in a few weeks, and he was supposed to come back here with me to get things set up for the wedding, but his job sort of ended up needing him to stay, and my mom won't stop looking at me like some wounded fucking puppy because Stan can't be here right now, and he won't be for a month, and—"

Craig cut him off before he ran out of oxygen.

"So you want me to pretend to be your stupid fiancé because you hate people feeling sorry for you."

That's exactly what it was, but Kyle refused to acknowledge it. Not when he had to say it so bluntly, at least. He'd already felt stupid enough already.

"Sort of."

"That's stupid." Craig told him, but still mulled over the idea for a few moments in his head. Here Kyle was, practically _begging _him to play out his sick sixteen year old self's fantasy, except it most likely wasn't going to end the way it used to back in his high school history class daydream sessions. Not to mention the fact that it felt as if Kyle had shoved his hand up his ass and rearranged his internal organs with that little tease of his, but maybe standing in as Stan wouldn't be so bad. Well, if he actually did get something out of it…

...and Kenny _did_ say he was doing good.

"What do you do?"

"Excuse me?"

"For a job. What do you do."

"Oh. Um, I'm a civil attorney. Why?"

"Give me five-thousand dollars and I'll do it."

"What!" Kyle gaped. "No way, that's ridiculous!"

Craig shrugged. "Then bye."

"Like, a couple hundred dollars, sure… but five-thousand? C'mon, dude. That's just insane."

"I said bye."

"What the hell would you even need that kind of money for, anyway? That's like, a whole month's salary for me right now." Kyle wouldn't stop talking. He was rambling, grasping for straws, trying to get Craig to reconsider. "The cost of living here isn't _that _high!"

"But in California it is."

"Is that what you're planning to do with it? Go to California?"

Craig shrugged. He'd been trying to get out to California since he'd graduated high school, but the cards weren't always in his favor. Even Kenny had managed to make his way out to the west coast before him, leaving him to suffer in South Park alone with only Clyde and Tweek to share his misery. Except not really, because Clyde couldn't care less as long as his best friend was around, and Tweek would be a neurotic mess no matter where he lived. But with five-thousand dollars added on top of what he'd already had saved up, Craig could finally ditch that shitty town and take his two closest friends with him.

"Like I said, Broflovski. Take it or leave it."

Kyle didn't really have much choice in the matter. At least, not if he wanted to finally get his mother off his back.

"Fine. But if I'm paying that much, then you're going to help me out for the next week until Stan does get here. There's no way I'm paying you that much just so you can come over, stuff your face, and leave."

Craig didn't argue. He could put up with dealing with Kyle and his bullshit for a week if it meant that he'd finally have a one way ticket to Pacific Beach by the end of the summer.

"Deal."

"Good. Great," Kyle sighed in relief. "Okay, you know where I live, right?"

Craig nodded.

"Be there at six o'clock sharp, alright? In the evening. Don't try to be a smartass and show up before the sun's even out." Kyle warned.

"Whatever, I got it. Now leave."

"You're going to actually have to be nice to me around my family. Stan doesn't tell me to _'leave'_."

"You're lucky if I even show up at this point."

"And for the love of all that is holy, please at least dress semi-decent, alright? I usually help Stan pick out his clothes so he always looks nice, but…" He nodded at the cheesy theater uniform Craig was wearing. Craig wondered if Kyle was seriously stupid enough to think that he'd chosen to wear that shit willingly.

More than through with the conversation, Craig ripped a random ticket from the reel and thrust it out the window at Kyle.

"Enjoy your movie. Now go away."

Kyle opened his mouth to say something, but Craig's piercing gray eyes made him second guess his decision. Instead, he took the ticket and made his way for the theater doors, wondering if he'd made the right decision, and how badly this could possibly backfire if it were to.

As for Craig, he already knew this wasn't going to end well.


	2. Chapter 2

**A/N:** Thank you so much to everyone who reviewed! I really appreciate it, and I'm glad you guys like the story so far. I love reading your feedback and thoughts!

* * *

The next evening came quicker than anticipated, and while his family had all sat down to pray before digging into their Sunday dinner, Kyle was pacing the hall nervously.

Craig was late.

It was already a quarter past six and that dead-eyed asshole was nowhere to be found. Kyle was mentally kicking himself—What had he been thinking? He should have never trusted Craig. Still, he checked his wrist every thirty seconds despite knowing good and well that there was no point.

Five more minutes passed, and Kyle figured he'd rather admit defeat before his food got cold.

He was two steps into the dining room when the doorbell rang, followed by the sound of heavy pounding at the door and Ike quipping that he "wasn't there" if it were the cops. Before Sheila could even open her mouth to wonder aloud what the cops would be doing there and why they'd want Ike, Kyle was already putting his experience as head of his college track team to use.

"Wait! I'm coming!" he shouted when they impatiently rang the doorbell a second time. He fumbled with the locks and threw open the door hurriedly, hard enough that the knob would surely leave a dent in the wall. He'd have to remember to check that later, but his thoughts were so scattered that he was having a hard enough time even remembering to _breathe_ at the moment.

"Took you long enough," Craig said, expressionless. Both hands were concealed in the pockets of his fitted black trousers, otherwise Kyle was sure he'd of been greeted with two middle fingers.

It was odd, seeing Craig without his trademark blue chullo hat. Then again, Kyle was pretty sure that he'd ditched that raggedy old thing during senior year of high school, but he couldn't remember. Odder though was seeing Craig even semi-dressed up. It wasn't exactly what Kyle would call classy, but Craig looked… good.

Yeah. That's the word he was looking for. Good.

"You're late," Kyle hissed, keeping his voice low so that nobody else would hear him.

Craig shrugged. The leather jacket-hoodie combo he was wearing made his shoulders look broader than they actually were, and it made Kyle's cheeks warm up as he thought of Stan.

"Are you gonna let me in or what."

Kyle huffed and stepped out of the way so that Craig could come in. He dragged his dirty, worn mustard yellow Converse across the doormat a few times before entering, and Kyle was amazed to see that Craig had even an ounce of civilized manner in him.

"What's for dinner."

"I'm surprised. You actually clean up alright." Kyle ignored his question. "I was worried you'd wear that hideous bowtie from the theater. But dude, you kinda look like you're going to a funeral wake. What gives?"

"You said to dress nice. This is me, dressing nice."

"Yeah, but it's not like this is a black tie affair or anything. Would it have killed you to add a bit more color?" _And some new shoes, because those look like they should've been thrown out after high school,_ Kyle thought.

In silence, Craig unzipped his jacket and shrugged it off to reveal a dark blue cardigan, buttoned up over what seemed to be just a plain heather grey t-shirt. Casual, but with a bit of effort put forth. Definitely an improvement.

"It's the only dress shirt I've got."

"Not exactly what I'd consider a dress shirt rather than something that should go _over_ one, but…" Kyle pointed out as he scanned him from head to toe, looking for anything that would give him away as not being Stan. "Come here."

Craig lifted a curious brow just barely as Kyle closed the distance between them. He kept his head held high when Kyle reached for his hair, mussing it up and combing his fingers down through so that it'd fall limply over his forehead rather than being swept messily to the left and out of the way.

"What are you doing."

"Fixing your hair. Stan doesn't wear it like that. What the hell does it look like I'm doing?"

"You're touching me. I never said you could touch me."

"If I'm paying you five-thousand dollars, I can do whatever the hell I _want_ to you," Kyle mused without thinking. The way Craig's shoulders squared themselves went unnoticed. "There. Perfect."

Craig's eyes never left Kyle's. "I feel like an idiot."

"Yeah, well. Suck it up."

_"Kyle, who is it! Who's at the door!"_ Sheila shouted.

"Dammit!" Kyle panicked under his breath. He looked at Craig, giving him a once over again to make sure he didn't miss anything. "Okay, alright. Alright, this is it. You've gotta—don't fuck this up, okay? Because I swear—Oh, Jesus fucking _Christ,_ Craig! Are you kidding me?"

"What."

"What do you mean _'what'_. Those stupid piercings are what!" Kyle complained, an open palm extended towards Craig's face. "Are you _trying_ to make a bad impression?"

"You didn't say anything about them last night."

Kyle hadn't of noticed then. "Yeah, well take them out!"

Craig rolled his eyes as he fumbled to remove the ring from his bottom lip. "I'll take this one out, but I'm not getting rid of the other ones. The holes close up too fast."

"Fine," Kyle said, taking note of the small plugs in Craig's ears. They were so tiny that maybe, just maybe, his mother—who continued to shout from the other room—wouldn't pick up on them. "Do you have any tattoos that aren't covered?"

"I don't have any. Why."

Kyle shook his head and grabbed Craig's arm, pulling him towards the dining room. "It's a Jewish thing. We're not allowed to have piercings or tattoos, and my mom is really strict on that shit. But don't worry about it. Now come on."

Craig's interest was piqued. "Is that why you don't have any?"

"Who said I didn't have any?" Kyle snapped. He didn't appreciate the tone in which Craig had asked, as if he needed his mother's approval or something. "And it's none of your business, either way."

Craig stared at him blankly.

"Hey Mom, Dad, Ike—look who's here!" Kyle announced from the entryway of the dining room, his arm entwined with Craig's, who looked as if he'd rather gouge his eyes out than be there.

The tension in the room was high, and Kyle was certain that they had recognized Craig almost immediately until his father blurted out, "Well hello, Stan! It's certainly nice of you to join us!"

Craig stared at him. Kyle elbowed him in the side.

"My dad said hello, _Stan."_

Craig winced. "Hi."

"Oh, Stanley! You finally made it!" Sheila shrieked from the table. She waved her hands frantically, motioning for him to come and sit down. The two men took their seats across from Ike. "I'm so glad! Kyle's been in such a foul mood because you haven't been here, maybe he can finally—"

Kyle cut his mother off before she could embarrass him worse. "Yeah, turns out he's been working so hard that his boss decided to let him leave early. They really do appreciate him there over at _Goldman Sachs._"

Craig almost choked on his water at the name drop. "Wait, serious—"

"So we've heard! You've actually been promoted recently too, Kyle's said. How's that been working out? Nice view from the new office?"

Craig eyed him blankly. "Yeah. Nice."

Kyle wanted to punch him in the face.

"So have you two finally decided on where you'll be having the wedding?" Sheila asked as she pushed the bowl of mashed potatoes towards Craig, who ignored her question in lieu of putting some for himself. How long had it been since he'd eaten a home cooked meal that he didn't have to make himself or wasn't charred thanks to Clyde's fine kitchen skills?

"Not really. We've still got to look around. We'll probably do that tomorrow," Kyle answered for the both of them. He looked over at Craig, who was now making grabby hands for the dish with the rolls on them. "Is there any place you had in mind, Stan?"

Craig didn't answer. Ike snapped his hand with the side of his butter knife, and Craig drew it back to his chest protectively. He glared at Kyle's adopted brother from across the table and Ike returned an equally-disgusted look through slitted eyes.

"You little—"

"Kyle asked you a question, _Stan._" Ike said, and Craig wanted to reach over and strangle that smug fuck because Ike was the reason he'd gotten kicked out of Mr. Mahaffey's class in art school three years ago. "You know, you look a lot different from the last time I saw you. New hair cut?"

A chill ran down Kyle's spine as he raced to change the topic before Ike could give them away. He should've known Ike wouldn't be as dumb as their parents were. "Where'd Dad go?" he asked, suddenly noticing that Gerald had excused himself from the table.

"He had to go make a phone call, Kyle." Sheila said, then turned her focus back to Craig. "So Stan, how are you two going about handling the last names?"

"Mom—" Kyle groaned.

"Now honey, don't be like that! It's important that you don't cover up your Jewish heritage!" she scolded her son. "You should be proud of your people!"

"_Mom—!_"

Craig couldn't believe he was seriously stuck in the middle of this bullshit.

"We're hyphenating."

"Hyphenating?" Sheila asked. Kyle listened, equally as curious because he certainly wasn't expecting a serious answer out of Craig. "You mean like Marsh-Broflovski?"

"Yup." Craig nodded, taking a spoonful of gravy and dripping it over his potatoes. He'd been thinking more along the lines of _Tucker_-Broflovski, but that worked too, he figured. "That way our Jewish princess over here doesn't lose his history."

"Hey!" Kyle snapped, though he was surprised. Whenever the topic of last names came up with Stan, the idea of hyphenating was completely off the table because apparently that's _"totally what Mexicans do"_ and it sounded _"weird"_ to him. They would end up arguing until they'd both decide to just keep their own last names as they were. "I'm not a princess, asshole!"

"Kyle! Not at the table!"

"Yeah, Kyle. Not at the table." Craig joined.

"Your mother's right," Gerald chimed in, taking his seat. "You've really got to work on that hot head of yours, Kyle. Especially if you're going to be a lawyer."

Kyle didn't have the energy to remind his father that he was, in fact, a bar certified lawyer in the state of New York, choosing to dig into his chicken instead.

Dinner continued uneventfully, the five of them awkwardly eating in silence whenever Kyle wasn't dodging one of his family's invasive questions, and whenever Craig would try to go for the dinner rolls again, Ike would get in the way and sneer. Eventually he gave up and went for the salad, but not before sneaking a middle finger at him.

Craig glanced at the clock hanging on the wall behind Gerald. It'd already been twenty minutes and he was more than ready to get out of there. How long did it take for these people to eat?

He looked over to Kyle on his left, who was staring absentmindedly at the cups of chocolate mousse dessert sitting on a platter in the middle of the table. For a second he wondered why he wasn't helping himself to it, until he had a devious idea to liven up the mood.

"What the hell!" Kyle shouted, throwing his hands up and pushing himself away from the table when he felt something wet squirt all over him. He looked up at his family, who just stared at him in confusion, and then over at Craig, who was trying his hardest to stifle a smirk. He put two and two together almost instantly, the glass of water in Craig's hand and the open piercing hole in his lip. Kyle felt sick. "That's disgusting, you fuck!"

"Kyle!" His mother warned for the umpteenth time that evening.

Someone knocking at the front door interrupted what definitely had the potential to turn into a full scale freak out on Kyle's part and Gerald excused himself from the table once more to answer it. Craig quirked a brow at Kyle, having been under the impression that he was only supposed to have dinner with the Broflovski's and nobody else. Kyle was just as confused.

"Are we supposed to be expecting someone?" he asked to no one in particular.

_"Randy, Sharon! It's so nice to see you two!"_

_"Well thanks for having us, Gerald. Sorry we're a little late."_

Kyle's blood ran cold. He knew those voices.

"What are the Marsh's doing here?" he asked worriedly. Craig shot him an urgent glance.

"Your father thought it'd be a good idea to invite them over since their son was in town. Isn't that nice? Now it's a real family dinner!" Sheila said happily. Kyle did not share in her excitement. In fact, this was the worst possible thing that could have happened.

They were absolutely fucked.

_"Stan's in the dining room with everyone else. Come on."_

Kyle panicked and did the only thing he could think of at the moment to get them out of there—spilling Craig's plate, which still had an abundance of leftover gravy, into his lap.

"Hey—!" Craig complained and stood up as if the room-temperature food had burned his crotch.

"Oh, silly me. Look at how clumsy I am!" Kyle bullshitted and stood up along with him, grabbing a handful of fabric at his shoulder. He began to usher him out of the room. "Come on, let's get you cleaned up before that stains. We'll be right back, Mom!"

Sheila looked like she wanted to say something but Kyle dragged Craig out into the hall before she could start. The two of them barely managed to evade his father and the Marshes by a second or two, sneaking up the steps and out of sight while they rounded the corner. Craig waited until they were safely locked away in Kyle's bedroom before exploding.

"What the hell did you do that for, Broflovski!"

"Our cover was almost blown, you idiot—I was saving our asses! If Stan's parents would have seen you they'd of noticed you weren't him in a heartbeat!" Well, maybe not Randy. He was as stupid as they came, but Sharon was pretty perceptive.

"You didn't have to spill gravy on me," Craig seethed, pulling his cardigan taught away from himself. There was no way that stain would come out without a miracle. "You owe me a new one of these."

"Oh, quit your whining. That'll be a cinch for you to clean. You like doing laundry, remember?" Kyle said, waving away Craig's complaints. Craig furrowed his brows. Kyle must've been talking about that time back in elementary school when he had offered to do Thomas's laundry for him. He was amused Kyle would even remember him saying something as menial as that, and wondered what he might remember from conversations they had shared themselves.

_If you're feeling sick then you probably shouldn't ride it. Clyde's already thrown up twice but that's because he's a big baby with a weak stomach who shouldn't of had four quesadillas before going on that thing. I don't care for heights, so you can wait here with me for the others to get off if you want._

"That's not the point. You ruined my shirt."

"Fine, okay, I'll get you a new one! Actually, I'll just give you the money for it, add it to what I owe you already. Jeez," Kyle spazzed.

While the two of them stood around in silence with nothing else to say to each other, Craig sat on the bed and looked around the room. He couldn't recall ever being in Kyle's bedroom when they were younger, but it seemed almost exactly how he had imagined it would. Neat, though cluttered with stacks of books on the floor next to the desk, and posters of bands and basketball players on the walls. The comforter was a dark green plaid pattern, and Craig thought it looked horrible.

"How long are we supposed to stay in here. It's hot."

"Just a couple more minutes; I can still hear them," Kyle answered in regards to the Marshes. He had his ear pressed up against the door. "I think they're getting ready to leave."

Craig was about to protest further until someone knocked fervently on the door, making Kyle jump away as if it'd shocked him. After he quietly spat a few choice words in irritation, he looked back at Craig, giving him a look as if to tell him _just shut up, they'll go away._

"I know you're both in there. Open the door," an unimpressed and equally unamused-sounding voice from the other side called out. Kyle decided to test the waters and ignored them for a few seconds, until they added, "Or I'll tell everyone what you're up to."

"Dammit, Ike!" Kyle whisper-shouted after he'd unlocked the door and let his not-so-little brother in. Ike was the tallest of the two now, even if it _was_ only by half an inch.

"That was a really dumb idea, you know." Ike didn't beat around the bush. He turned his attention from his brother to Craig with a glare. "I can't believe you'd seriously use Craig as a stand in. What gives?"

When he heard how easily (and maliciously) Craig's name ran off his tongue, Kyle remembered how odd he found it that he'd recognized Craig so quickly during dinner. He couldn't recall Ike ever hanging around with Craig and his gang when they were younger, let alone even attending the same school at the same time—Kyle and the other's had a good four or five grades on him, after all.

Craig scoffed. "Pot calling the kettle black."

"That's not how you use that phrase, asshat."

Craig flipped him off.

"How do you two even know each other?" Kyle interrupted their little half-hearted spat. "Mom and Dad didn't notice, so how did you?"

"Kind of hard to forget the face of the guy who gets you thrown out of your Intro to Art class during your first year of college." Ike shrugged, jabbing a thumb in Craig's direction. "Not to mention the fact he doesn't look _anything_ like Stan at all. I mean, seriously. Have you even looked at him?"

"Hey, _you're_ the one who got _me_ thrown out, Broflovski."

Kyle struggled to keep their attention on him. "What the hell are either of you two talking about?" he asked, dumbfounded. There was no way they went to college together. "How would that even make sense? Craig, you're like—you're my age, right? And Ike was eighteen his first year…" He trailed off, piecing everything together. Craig wouldn't have been taking an introductory course unless it was his first year as well. "That would mean you started school when you were… twenty-three?"

"So I had a late start."

Kyle found that odd, but decided not to dwell on it. "Why were you kicked out?"

"Because we argued a lot, I guess."

"About what?"

"Assignments, mostly. We were paired up as partners for the semester."

"Can you imagine being stuck with this sore loser for eighteen weeks?" Ike cut in. "Working with him was a nightmare. Completely void of any creative ideas, and not exactly the best conversationalist. It was like talking to a brick wall."

Craig prickled. "Well maybe if you didn't act like such a self-righteous dick all the time who was smarter than everyone else—"

"Okay, okay. That's enough." Kyle put his hands up when it was clear he wasn't going to get anywhere with these two. The thought of Ike and Craig as partners was definitely something, though. He wondered who had pissed who off first, what with Craig's flippant demeanor and Ike's more or less overly self-assured ways. "Ike, are Stan's parents gone?"

"Probably. They were on their way out when I came up here."

That was good. He and Craig needed to get out of there fast.

"I can trust you to keep quiet, right?"

Ike shrugged. "Give me three-hundred bucks and I will."

"Three-hundred—Jesus, Ike!" What the hell was with everyone draining him of his finances lately? Did everyone seem to think he was just made of money? Maybe he should have taken up a different profession, one that didn't apparently have dollar signs painted all over it. "Fine, but it'll have to wait until later. I only have about forty on me right now and I need that."

Ike seemed pleased enough with those terms.

They waited another minute or two before deeming it safe to leave. Ike was the first to go, but not after returning the middle finger that Craig had given him earlier. Kyle, with Ike's words stuck in his head on repeat about how Craig looked nothing like Stan, searched his closet hurriedly, tossing clothes all over.

Craig was more than ready to get out of there. While he might have wanted nothing more than to hang out in Kyle's bedroom with him at some point in his life, he didn't now, and definitely not under these circumstances.

"Let's go already."

"Hold on, I'm looking for something."

"What."

After another minute of digging in silence, Kyle finally found what he was looking for.

"Here," he said and stood up from his knees. He went over to Craig and unceremoniously slapped something onto his head: a dark grey military-style cap. "Great. That'll work."

Craig was not amused. "What."

Kyle hated the way he said that.

"It's a hat."

"No shit, Sherlock. But why."

"Just for safety precautions," Kyle told him. "We might run into my parents—or worse, Stan's parents—and it'd be a lot easier to hide the fact you're not Stan if they can't see your face that well."

Craig grabbed the brim and tipped it up, completely defeating the whole purpose. "Why do you even have this? It's too small, wouldn't fit over your hair."

It was a gift he'd gotten Stan during senior year of high school, something to replace that cheesy worn out red Cows baseball cap of his. Stan didn't like it though, so Kyle figured he'd wear it himself. But even when he shaved off most of his hair that summer and the hat finally did fit, it just looked stupid on him.

Craig, on the other hand, pulled it off quite well. Then again those kind of hats always looked best on people like Craig; bored and indifferent to the world.

"Don't worry about it. Now c'mon." Kyle told him. Craig scowled when he tipped the brim of the hat down before they left the room.

Stan's parents were thankfully gone, which made it a lot easier to get through the house with little to no problems. Until Sheila spotted the two of them at the front door, where Kyle was lacing up his boots.

"Oh, you just missed your parents, Stan! They were so excited to see you!" she said, then noticed that Craig's jacket was thrown over his shoulder. "Leaving so soon?"

"Sorry about that. But yeah, Stan's not feeling too good, so we're gonna head out."

"There's no point in wasting money when you have a perfectly good room here. Your bed is big enough for the both of you, isn't it?"

"Yeah, but," Kyle stammered, then paused, at a loss for words. He didn't have an excuse prepared for this. "We um, well. Stan already booked us a hotel so that we can… have some time together alone. You know."

"How romantic!" Sheila exclaimed, patting Craig on the shoulder. It took all of his willpower not to pull away from her. "Well, I did think you looked a little sickly during dinner, very pale. I hope you feel better, Stanley!"

Craig forced a curt closed-mouth smile while Kyle glared at him over his mother's shoulder.

After hugging his mom goodbye, Kyle and Craig bounded down the steps and towards the driveway where an old silver Honda Civic sat parked behind his father's sedan. It wasn't as nice as his newer forest green 4-door Jeep Wrangler he insisted on having despite the fact he lived in the middle of public transport-central and only drove it a handful of times a month—mostly when it was absolutely necessary he had Mr. Puccini's pizza across the river in Newark—and on the inside it was a total _pigsty_.

"Dude, your car is a mess," Kyle said as he pushed a small pile of plastic food wrappers and soda cans from the passenger seat to the floor. "Haven't you ever heard of a trash can?"

"What are you doing."

"Trying to get in. Keyword: _Trying._ I'm not sure there's enough room between the half-empty popcorn bucket and—is that a cat food container? What the hell?"

Craig didn't answer him, starting the car in silence. When Kyle finally finished battling his way into the passenger side and had settled in with a sigh of irritation, Craig asked, "Where am I taking you."

"Your place, I guess. Unless you can get us free tickets to that new movie that just came out today. I could go for a good movie after all that."

"I never said I was okay with this. You coming over, I mean."

"Well I don't have anywhere else to go, so what do you want me to do?"

"Get a room? I dunno."

"If you and my brother weren't bleeding me fucking _dry_ over here, I might just be able to do that!" Kyle spat venomously. "So if you want your money, you better just shut up and deal with it!"

Kyle expected for Craig to stop the car, maybe even tell him to get out, but Craig seemed strangely unphased by the outburst. Instead he adjusted the brim of his cap and continued to drive at a painfully slow speed that Kyle would have called him out on if he weren't so preoccupied already.

"Alright." Craig eventually said, his nasally voice cutting through the tense silence. Not another word was spoken between the two of them for the rest of the ride, and Kyle wondered how Craig could be so calm.

* * *

Craig's apartment was on the west side of town, a good two miles away from the community center but only a stone's throw from Stark's Pond. It was a boring two-story complex housing probably around eight or nine families, and Kyle was surprised to find that Craig actually lived in a decent place that wasn't in shambles.

"Don't touch anything." Was the first thing out of Craig's mouth as soon as he'd tossed the front door open. He lived on the second floor and had no neighbors, but the noise from the ones below him more than made up for that.

Kyle was astonished to see how well kept the small apartment was, unlike Craig's mess of a car. In fact, it was pretty bare aside from a few signed and framed film release posters scattered on the walls.

"How long have you been here?" he asked when he noticed a stack of small brown boxes against the wall near a shelf that looked about ready to collapse underneath the weight of all the DVDs it held. Kyle suddenly recalled Craig's affinity for making movies when they were kids, and how he'd even been part of the AV club in high school.

Craig tossed his keys on the counter and draped his jacket over a bar stool. The kitchen stood adjacent and open to the living room, which didn't contain much other than a navy blue sofa and a brown coffee table sitting across from a moderately sized TV that read **RESUME**. The game console on the floor in front of it was left on.

"Since senior year," Craig said. He was still wearing the hat that Kyle had forced onto him. Kyle wanted to ask what the deal was with the boxes, but then Craig announced, "I'm going to bed."

"Hey, wait!" Kyle called out. "Where am I supposed to sleep?"

"You can sleep on the floor for all I care. Goodnight."

"I'm not paying you five-thousand dollars so I can sleep on your floor," Kyle reminded him. He knew there was another bedroom somewhere—there were too many doors for there _not_ to be.

Craig stopped his trek for the short hallway where (Kyle assumed) his room was and turned to him. For a second he just stared, looking as indifferent as usual, until Kyle crossed his arms over his chest to show that he meant business. Craig sighed and went for a door in the living room instead, momentarily disappearing behind it to produce a dark red blanket that had it's fair share of stains. Kyle figured that door must've led to a spare bedroom, then.

"Here, sleep on the couch." Craig said as he chucked the rolled up blanket at Kyle, who'd gotten a face full of it. He turned on his heel and started off for the hall again.

"Why can't I stay in there?"

"Because. Goodnight." And with that, Craig slammed his bedroom door shut.

Annoyed, Kyle groaned and fell back onto the worn out sofa, sinking in as if he were being swallowed by quicksand. Part of him was grossed out, being forced to sleep on a potentially filthy couch; he didn't know what Craig did in his spare time and idly wondered how many people had fucked in that exact same spot where he was sitting. He was even more so at odds over the blanket Craig had gotten from the mysterious room, which smelled like it'd been doused in Axe body spray once a day for the past three months.

But after a good fifteen minutes of silently griping and complaining, Kyle ended up stretched out across the couch with the blanket pulled up to his chin, hoping that Craig would choke on his own spit in his sleep.


	3. Chapter 3

**A/N:** Thanks so much for the reviews! I love hearing what you guys have to say/think about the story.

**Monthadog**, thank you! I'm glad you like my writing style!  
**Miroir Twin**, I'm definitely trying to keep them in character the best I can, haha.

Anyways, enjoy!

* * *

Kyle woke up to someone's tongue in his mouth.

"What the…" he mumbled, cracking an eye open. When his brain began to process what was happening, he shot his arms out to push the offender off and away. They fell to the floor with a dull thud. _"Blech!"_

"Is he finally awake?" Someone that definitely wasn't Craig asked enthusiastically from behind the sofa. It smelled like something was burning. "Did you wake him up? Huh? C'mere, boy!"

Kyle looked down in time to see a mass of dark fur disappear around the corner of the couch, presumably following the voice. Kyle, deciding to take a page from their book, sat up.

"Good morning, man!" It's Clyde, in all of his **KISS THE COOK** apron-wearing glory. His hair was still short and choppy the way it'd been throughout childhood and he looked exactly the same, except perhaps maybe a bit more filled out since the last time Kyle saw him. On the floor at his feet was a small white dog with black and brown markings and a red bandana tied around its neck.

"Nice of you to join the rest of us in the living world!" Clyde said, waving a spatula around to help gesticulate his words. There was way too much smoke rising from the pan on the stove for Kyle to be comfortable with. "I didn't want to wake you up, but Charlie apparently insisted. You hungry? I made breakfast!"

"Clyde? What are you doing here?" Kyle asked, rubbing his eyes. "Who's dog is that?"

"I live here. And this is Charlie—he's Craig's dog. Well, sorta my dog, too. See, his bandana is my color," Clyde pointed the spatula at the dog, dripping grease all over the floor. Charlie was only more than happy to lick it up. "We went out for a walk last night and when we came back you were asleep on the couch. Charlie wanted to lay with you but you looked totally wiped out, so I kept him with me for the night."

Kyle looked down at the blanket pooled around his legs. "This is yours, isn't it?"

"Yeah, but I don't mind. I had another one." Clyde shrugged. "That one really needs washed."

"I know." Kyle said. He swung his legs over the edge of the couch and stood up, stretching his arms out. That couch was far too soft to be sleeping on and his upper back was feeling the repercussions.

Kyle watched as Clyde dumped a heaping mass of something onto a paper plate and then continued to season it gratuitously with pepper.

"What is that?"

"Eggs. Want some?" Clyde offered eagerly as he stabbed some onto a fork. They didn't look like eggs. He gave a mumbled _'ah'_ when it burned his tongue, rightfully so, and he spit it not-so-graciously back onto his plate. He'd try again later if Kyle remembered him correctly. "I made turkey bacon too, but I don't think it's done yet."

"Actually, I'm pretty sure it's well done."

"Hey! That's funny, right? Because you're Jewish?" Clyde said. "I didn't even know you were gonna be here, I just bought turkey bacon cause it's supposed to be healthier. Less fat in it." He paused, then scratched his head. Grease from the spatula dribbled down the handle and onto his shoulder. "Are you still Jewish?"

"Yes, Clyde. I'm still Jewish." Kyle said. It didn't particularly mean that he kept from eating pork, though. At this point in his life he was far more ethnically Jewish than he was religiously.

"Oh, cool."

Kyle sat at the counter, watching Clyde as he fixed another plate of food. He had so many questions going through his head; most of them had to do with what Clyde was still doing in that hick town and why he was living with Craig, but when he took a bite of the burnt eggs and too-crispy bacon he was more concerned with who the hell let Clyde near a stove top.

"Sorry if it's not that good. Turkey bacon kind of sucks."

"It's okay. This is fine." Kyle forced as he gnawed on the bark-like cuts of meat. "It's great."

"So what are you doing back in South Park, man?" Clyde asked. "And, like. Not to sound rude or anything, but what are you doing here? In our apartment, I mean."

"It's… complicated." Kyle said, hoping that Clyde would just take his answer at face value and leave it at that because it _was_ complicated, and it was way too early to even be talking about it if the flashing time on the microwave held any truth to it. "Craig is just helping me out with something."

"Oh. Well, that's cool. It'll be awesome having someone else around to hang out with." Clyde said. He was clumsy with his own plate as he ate and talked and gestured, but Charlie was there every step of the way to hoover anything he dropped. "It's just so weird cause Craig totally mentioned you yesterday. Or I guess, it'd be the day before, now? I think. Yeah."

He had Kyle's attention. "Really? What'd he say?"

"Something about how you're an asshole and how he was glad you moved far away, but that's just Craig." He shrugged. "I don't think you're an asshole, though. You were always pretty nice to me."

"Did he say anything else?" Kyle wanted to know just how much Craig might've revealed to Clyde about their little agreement. The last thing he needed was Clyde and his notoriously-big mouth telling everyone his business.

"Not really. I didn't get a chance to ask because he went to bed right after. He does that a lot, actually. Usually when he wants to avoid confrontation." Clyde explained. "He won't admit it, but I think it's because it makes him nervous."

_Of what,_ Kyle wanted to ask, but he didn't. He never remembered Craig being the kind of person to get uncomfortable or shy about anything, even if he _was_ well known for avoiding most social gatherings and public functions in high school.

"So how long are you staying with us?"

"Shit," Kyle mumbled as he pushed the still mostly-full plate of what was supposed to be food away. With the microwave flashing 8:40AM in green directly across from him, he was suddenly reminded that it'd be time to take his morning insulin in about an hour. Too bad he'd forgotten it at his parents' house.

"That bad, huh?" Clyde tsked. He took Kyle's plate and set it on the ground, letting Charlie finish it off. "That's okay though, cause you'll eat it, right? Right, Charlie? You're a good boy!"

"Don't talk to my dog like that." Craig commanded from somewhere out of sight.

Kyle groaned as he planned the logistics of how he'd go about stopping by his parents' house to pick up his insulin without being forced to stay and visit. Not only that, but he needed a change of clothes, too.

Out of his peripheral vision, something blue caught his eye—an opened package of Red Vines stuffed into a Ziploc bag next to the paper towel roll. Determined to get the taste of charred meat out of his mouth, he reached over and grabbed them.

"Uh. I wouldn't eat those if I were you." Clyde warned.

"Why not?" Kyle asked. "Something wrong with them?"

"Well. No." Clyde said, looking conflicted. "It's just that Craig doesn't like it when people eat his candy. Mostly me, but other people, too."

Kyle waved him off as he fished out a licorice rope and took a bite. He wasn't worried about Craig throwing a hissy fit over some candy, but more so whether or not they were still edible, which was hardly. They were bland and tough to chew, and Kyle thought it was oddly fitting for Craig to like them.

As if the stale theater candy had summoned him, Craig rounded the corner. He looked ready for the day, or at least as ready as Craig Tucker possibly could be, dressed in a pair of dark fitted jeans and a pullover hoodie with an obscure band name Kyle didn't recognize that looked too thick for summer. He had the hat from yesterday in his hand.

"Craig!" Clyde said a little too loudly, considering the fact that all three of them were well within six feet of each other.

"Clyde." Craig said back in his usual tone. He shook his head when Clyde held the frying pan out to him. But when the dog barked at his feet, Craig got down on one knee and cracked what was probably the first actual honest-to-God smile since Kyle had been back in town while dishing out some very spirited belly rubs.

"Charlie! Good morning, buddy."

Seeing him _look_ happy was one thing, but hearing that normally void-of-interest voice hitch up a few octaves in excitement was a whole different story. It almost seemed weirdly intimate, and Kyle had to fight himself from looking away.

"Jeez, at least buy him dinner first," Kyle found himself saying without thinking, feeling the need to remind everyone that he was there.

Craig looked up. His smile faded.

"Why are you eating my candy." he asked. He turned to Clyde when he didn't get an immediate answer. "Did you tell Broflovski he could eat my candy."

Clyde put his hands up in defense.

"I'm not, see?" Kyle pushed the rest of the licorice down into the bag and shoved it aside. He shouldn't have been eating those anyway—not when he had yet to check his blood sugar. "But hey, it's good that you're up. There's a lot of stuff we need to get done."

"We?"

"Yeah. We." Kyle said. "As in you and me?"

"I know what that means." Craig said. "But I'm busy today."

"But you're supposed to come help me look for a place to have the—_you know_," Kyle nodded at Clyde while his attention was on scraping the frying pan clean. The least he knew, the better. "Don't you remember me mentioning that last night during dinner?"

Craig shrugged. "Too bad. Clyde and I already have plans for today, and I work later."

"I don't care, I'm paying you—!"

"You know, I've been thinking," Craig cut him off when Clyde left for the bathroom. "If you're going to be staying with me, eating my food, _and_ forcing me to play along with this bullshit role, it's only fair if you at least pay me something upfront." He began to lace up his yellow Converse, not once looking up at Kyle who'd been burning holes into the top of his head the whole time. "Besides, how else can I know for sure you'll actually pay me in the end."

"Because I'm not a _liar_." Kyle spat. Craig was dangerously close to surpassing Cartman on his shit list. "When have I ever broke a promise? Name _one_ _time_."

"You still owe me a hundred dollars from when you took my birthday money and forced me to join your stupid Peruvian flute band."

"Jesus Christ, you're _still_ on that?" Kyle was floored at the sheer one-track mindedness this man boasted, not to mention his willingness to hold a grudge from well over ten years ago. But no matter how long Kyle stared at him in disbelief, Craig didn't budge. "You know what, fine. I'll get you your money, dude. Whatever."

"I'm not your dude." Is all that Craig said in return to him. "Clyde, are you ready?"

Clyde popped his head out from around the corner, toothbrush hanging out of his mouth and a small duffle bag in hand. Craig nodded in acknowledgement before he disappeared back into the bathroom for a moment.

Kyle was curious. "So what are we doing today, then?"

"Nothing."

"We're going to a film festival down at Stark's Pond. Wanna come?" Clyde asked, dropping the bag onto the couch. "We're also gonna mess around and try out this new camera Craig ordered last week; he's been crazy excited since it got here. You should join us!"

Kyle was going to pass on the offer and ask if it'd be alright if he just hung around the apartment until they got back, but he couldn't help but find some sort of spiteful amusement in the way Craig clenched his jaw at Clyde's unauthorized invitation. Besides, his house was on the other side of town and he still needed a ride over there.

"Sure, why not. Sounds like it might be fun."

Clyde gave him a bro-worthy fist bump that he wasn't nearly prepared for while Craig stood off to the side, glaring at the both of them.

* * *

Kyle ended up taking his insulin shot on time.

The only person that was home when Kyle stopped by was his mother, and she hadn't even noticed him sneak in. That was good though, since Craig was already not too happy about having to wait for him in the car, complaining about how Kyle would _'make them late,' _which was absolute bullshit because what film festival started at ten in the morning on a Monday?

Kyle knew that Craig was just being a petty asshole. It was evident in the way that Craig forced him to sit in the backseat, and how he let out the World's Biggest Sigh™ when Kyle requested that they stopped back at the apartment before doing anything else, as if driving an extra block was the biggest inconvenience in the world. It wasn't his fault that insulin needed to stay refrigerated, but he didn't mention that was why.

"Took you long enough," Craig had said when he got back in the car and handed him the keys. He made sure to hide his insulin in the back of the fridge so that neither Craig nor Clyde would accidentally stumble upon it. "You better not have gone in my room."

The festival was… a success, by South Park standards. Only a handful of people showed up, a couple of them Kyle recognized from high school, though he didn't say anything to them. What _was_ there to say? Kyle had no reason to waste his time with people who felt compelled to stay in that redneck, white trash town. So he stuck to Clyde for most of the day, because Clyde was his only source of entertainment. Well, him and Charlie, who'd glued his furry self to Kyle's side. The dog had taken an odd liking to him, and Kyle couldn't deny him a few pats on the head here and there. Clyde said he was a Jack Russell-something mix.

Craig had been engrossed from start to finish, leaned back on the grass as he watched each and every short film as if there were some sort of hidden messages in them. The only time Craig spoke was to tell Kyle _'no'_ when he asked if it'd be alright if he ditched and went back to the apartment because he was bored. Craig didn't trust him to not snoop through his stuff. So Kyle kept busy by playing fetch with Charlie and Clyde (who must not have understood how fetch worked, because he'd constantly try to outrun Charlie for the stick and win).

Two gruelingly long hours later, the festival began to wrap things up and Craig seemed to be full of some sort of renewed vigor. With the camcorder in hand, the three of them (and Charlie) took off for the nearby fields, Craig documenting every step of the way as he tested out the new filter features and wide-angle lens. Clyde was a total camera whore, getting in front of it at every chance he got. Kyle was the opposite. Craig actually avoided Kyle for the most part, but every now and then he'd turn the camera on him when he didn't think Kyle would notice. Kyle did though, and Craig was quick to focus in on something else instead.

Kyle didn't understand Craig at all. Occasionally he would grin when Clyde said something stupid on camera or whenever Charlie stole the spotlight, and he was still wearing that gray military cap from yesterday.

"You know, you don't have to wear that hat anymore."

Craig shrugged. "I know. I don't mind." He fiddled with it absentmindedly, pushing the brim up just a little. Kyle wondered if that meant he liked it. "Keeps the sun out of my eyes."

"Whatever. Hey, can I see your camera?"

"No."

They eventually found themselves pulling into the parking lot of Tweak Bros at Clyde's persistent requests, where he almost tripped over his untied shoelaces in a race to get out of the car before anyone else. Kyle was glad—not that Clyde had almost face planted the pavement, but because they were finally done. He desperately needed to sit down and relax, preferably somewhere air conditioned. While Craig walked Charlie over by a patch of grass before going inside, Kyle hit up the ATM at the liquor store two buildings down.

The coffee shop smelled exactly how Kyle expected it would, only ten times stronger than any Harbucks he'd ever been inside. It looked a lot nicer than he remembered. He quickly spotted the others standing at the counter across from a familiar blond with wide eyes, wearing a black coffee-stained apron.

"Tweek?"

"Holy shit, man! You can't just sneak up on a guy like that!" he shouted, almost dropping the cup of coffee in his hand. Some of it sloshed out onto the counter. "Who are you? How do you know my name!"

"Hey Tweek, chill! It's Kyle Broflovski. From school, remember?" Clyde said, taking the coffee from Tweek before he could spill the rest of it. The way his hand lingered over Tweek's a little longer than it needed to didn't go unnoticed to Kyle. "Cartman's friend?"

"Also, you're wearing a nametag, dumbass." Craig pointed out dully.

"Ah! Cartman? Get out, get out!"

"Whoa, hey—Cartman isn't my friend!" Kyle said. "What the hell, Clyde?"

Clyde looked confused. "But you used to hang out with him all the time, though."

"Because I couldn't get _away_ from him," Kyle said. He still very much hated that fat bastard. Like clockwork, every Easter there would be a neatly hand-written letter in a sealed envelope in his mailbox addressed to one **Jersey Jinger Jew (AKA Kahl)** that more or less was just a repeat of the previous year's list of reasons on why Kyle was, in fact, the anti-Christ and was full of Cartman's usual childish anti-semitic slurs. He'd receive a copy of _The Passion_ during Christmas time.

Tweek blinked spastically, one eye at a time. "So you're not friends with him? Good. G-good! Jesus Christ!" He accidentally popped off a button from his shirt when he pulled on it too hard. Craig blocked it from bouncing off the counter. "Aw, man! Not again!"

"Relax. I can sew it back on." Craig told him, pocketing the yellow button for later.

"Cartman comes in all the time and makes Tweek give him free stuff. He's a real asshole." Clyde said, answering Kyle's unasked question.

Did _anyone_ leave South Park at all? "Cartman's still here?"

"Yeah. He's a cop."

The thought of Eric Cartman with that much power made Kyle feel sick to his stomach.

"He stresses me out, man! He hasn't been in here all week but I know he's gonna strike soon! He's just waiting. Waiting and—Ah! He's gonna get me, you guys!" Tweek spazzed, hunched in on himself. Tweek's sickly-thin and narrow build made him seem a lot taller than he actually was, and his constantly-disheveled hair added a good inch or two to the illusion. The bags under his tired hazel eyes made Kyle wonder if he ever slept.

Kyle found a seat in a corner booth with Charlie while he waited for Craig and Clyde to finish ordering. Not that he didn't enjoy talking to Tweek again after so long, but a little bit of Tweek went a long way.

"I see Tweek's just as spastic as ever," Kyle said when Craig slid into the booth across from him. Tweek was haphazardly wiping down the coffee equipment with a ratty green rag while Clyde sat on the counter, talking at his back.

"Yup."

"Shouldn't he be on some kind of medication? Like Adderall, or Ritalin?"

"No."

"Why don't you think so?"

"It's just the way he is." Craig shrugged, clearly not interested in the conversation. He kept his eyes on the table in front of him as he boredly turned his muffin around in circles. He had a small black coffee pushed to the side.

Kyle made a face. "You're seriously going to drink that?"

"I don't like coffee."

"Then why buy it?"

Craig ignored him.

"Ike was right—trying to talk to you _is_ like talking to a brick wall." Kyle sighed, slouching down into the seat. Craig looked up at him darkly, his lips a thin line. "Anyways, here, before Clyde comes; hopefully this is enough for now."

Craig looked down to find a thick wad of folded over twenty-dollar bills being thrust at him from under the table. He took it and counted it out in his lap silently. When he was finished, he looked up at Kyle, making eye contact for the first time since they'd left the apartment.

"What, you want more?"

"No—" Craig said, his voice cracking the slightest bit. He cleared his throat and tried again. "It's… this is enough." He couldn't remember the last time he'd held eight-hundred dollars in cash, if ever.

"Good, because that's all I'm giving you for now. Stan's oblivious, but he's not stupid. He'll notice if there's too much missing at once." Kyle said.

Craig nodded even though Kyle's attention was on the menu board hanging above Tweek. He suddenly felt pressured to say something, and maybe even a little bad for the way he'd been treating Kyle the past twenty-four hours.

"I like the way it smells." He managed to squeeze out, cutting through the tension. "The coffee, I mean."

Kyle lifted a brow. "You buy it just to smell it? That's kind of weird, especially since that stuff smells like shit."

"Do you want something? Like coffee, or whatever." Craig asked suddenly. "Or a muffin. This one's pumpkin flavored."

"Why are you being nice to me?" Kyle already knew the answer—when money talks bullshit walks, after all—but he wanted to hear it straight from the horse's mouth. "You were just being a total jackass two minutes ago. Now you want to talk?"

"Whatever." Craig took a bite of his muffin and looked out the window, forcefully ignoring Kyle's presence. From his angle Kyle could see Craig's uneven bite mark left in the pastry, and he couldn't help but remember in 7th grade when Craig had finally gotten braces and how halfway through the year his parents couldn't afford to keep sending him to the orthodontist. Craig was stuck with the empty metal brackets cemented to his teeth until the beginning of sophomore year, when rumors starting going around about how Kenny McCormick took them off with his dad's pliers in the boys bathroom in exchange for a cheeseburger and a blowjob. Those slightly discolored patches on his teeth were hardly noticeable, but they would never go away.

Kyle sighed, looking at the small camcorder bag on the edge of the table. If Craig was actually attempting to make nice and have a civil conversation for once, he figured he should probably be the bigger man and just play along.

"So did you like the camcorder?"

It took a few seconds, but Craig turned back to Kyle with his arms folded across his chest. He nodded. "It's alright for the price."

"Get any good shots?"

"A couple."

"Get any good shots of _me?_"

Craig stared at him.

"I'm kidding," Kyle assured him when it was painfully clear that Craig did not find nearly as much humor in that as he did himself. "You're not one for jokes, are you?"

"I like jokes. You're just not funny."

"_You're_ not funny!" Kyle snapped back a little too quickly. Craig actually chuckled. "What? What are you laughing at, asshole?"

"You. You're funny."

"Hey, what about me? I'm funny too, right?" Clyde asked as he slid into the booth next to Craig, suddenly taking an interest in the conversation. "Right, Craig?"

"Funny looking, sure."

Clyde frowned. "Yeah, well that's not what Bebe says!"

"It doesn't matter what Bebe says. She's stupid."

"You're not funny looking, Clyde." Kyle assured the larger of the three when he looked like he was seriously taking what Craig said to heart. It was true; he was tall, standing just a couple inches shy of Craig's six-foot-three, the spare tire around his waist seemed to fit him perfectly, and he was boyishly handsome in all of his clumsy bull-in-a-china-shop ways. "You're very cute. I would totally date you."

"Oh God. Please don't infect him with your gayness, I don't think he could handle it. His head might implode." Craig said, and Kyle was pretty sure he could actually detect a hint of playful sarcasm in there somewhere.

"You joke about me not being able to handle being gay when _you're_ the one who couldn't handle the D and you _are_ gay, so suck on that!" Clyde countered smugly, making a V motion down towards his crotch. Kyle was suddenly very confused about the nature of their relationship, and the way Craig shifted nervously in his seat didn't help.

Kyle fretted to think of something to say—other than asking whether or not Craig had rode Clyde's dick, because _God_ was he curious now—that would put their conversation back on a normal track. He was almost _getting_ somewhere with Craig before that stupid joke had to ruin it!

"So, art school, huh?"

Craig was not against this change in conversational direction in the least. "What about it."

"Nothing, I just remembered Ike mentioning the two of you went to school together." He thought about how Craig looked behind the camcorder, calm and focused as the world played back to him through the small screen. Sometimes he even looked amused, going so far as to crack a wry smile before catching himself. "If you don't mind me asking; why art school?"

"I went for film and production."

"But… shouldn't you have gone to film school for that?" Not that Kyle was completely ignorant of the inner workings of how art schools actually functioned, but, well, he was completely ignorant of the inner workings of how art schools actually functioned.

"They have a program at the Art Institute. It was good enough. Besides, the nearest actual film school that doesn't suck dick is like, six hours from here. The drive to AI was already shitty enough three times a week." Craig shrugged, then lifted a brow. "Why are you asking me all this?"

"No reason. I was just thinking that the camera really suits you, that's all." Kyle said. "Even though you were sort of just messing around with it earlier, it looked—natural, in a way. You holding it."

"Really?"

"Yeah, definitely." When Kyle could actually start to hear the question marks at the ends of Craig's sentences, he knew he had him hook, line, and sinker. "So, like. What'd you do in school? Did you make any movies?"

"Not… really. They were more like short films. You don't just make movies right off the bat. I got to do a lot of editing work, though."

"Well either way, I'm sure they were pretty awesome, dude."

Craig was conflicted. "Uh. I could maybe—show you? One. Or like, two. I guess." He began to turn his half-eaten muffin around in circles again once more, only this time it was obviously out of nervousness rather than boredom. "If you want to see them, I mean. They're not really anything special."

"Are you kidding, bro?" Clyde butt in, slinging an arm over his best friend's shoulders. Craig shrugged him off. "Kyle, man, he made the _best _videos. Like, there was this one, right—and I was totally in it, by the way—where I was a cop and Charlie was my K9 dog buddy, okay, and Charlie died, but not really because obviously he's right there next to you, but oh man that shit was so sad and it won—was it the first year short video contest? Or was that one of those documentary thingies you made?"

Craig groaned.

"You made documentaries?" Kyle liked documentaries.

"He made _tons_ of stuff, man! It just sucks that he dropped out, you know? But I guess shit happens." Clyde's attention switched to the front when Tweek let out a shrill gasp at the sound of the oven timer. "Oooh, brownies are ready! Be right back, guys."

"_Clyde_—" Craig was going to kill him.

"You dropped out of art school?" Kyle was looking at him as if he were from a different planet, and Craig hated it. This is why he couldn't take Clyde anywhere. "How come?"

"Because. Reasons." Craig said bluntly.

Kyle didn't like that answer. "I just don't understand. How do you even manage to drop out of art school of all places? I mean, medical school, business school, sure… but art school?"

"I don't want to talk about it, alright? Just back off."

"Fine! Jeez, sorry," Kyle sighed. "I was just trying to understand. Sorry for _bothering_ you."

Craig watched from the corner of his eye as Kyle tapped at his phone instead, going through his unread text messages. He didn't mean to snap at Kyle like he had. Him dropping out was still a sore topic for him to talk about, and he didn't exactly enjoy looking like a failure in front of the one person in that whole town who'd had their life pretty much planned out since childhood.

"I didn't have the money." Craig admitted after a minute of tense silence. When Kyle didn't look up from his phone, he rolled his eyes and continued. "I couldn't afford to keep going if I still wanted to have a place to live. Between gas money and tuition, I was always broke."

"You didn't have financial aid?"

"Not after my second year. I lost it because I failed a few classes and my GPA fell." Craig mumbled, remembering how he'd gone through a short bout of depression after midterms. There were so many younger and more talented students than him in his classes and it made him self conscious for starting school so late. "I was just under a lot of stress at the time. It's not because I'm stupid or anything."

Kyle finally looked up. "I didn't think you _were_ stupid."

"Yes you did. I saw the way you looked at me when Clyde said I'd dropped out. You thought I was an idiot."

"That's not true!"

"Then why did you look at me like that?"

"I was confused! How _else_ would you have liked me to look at you?"

"How about not in that judgmentally condescending way you look at someone who's just a waste of space and doesn't even know it," Craig suggested defensively. "Just because your life is perfect and you're happy playing house with your fake ass faggot boyfriend _Marsh_ who works for some stupid company that even _sounds_ retarded doing fuck all doesn't mean—"

"Okay, _clearly_ you have some anger issues that need to be worked out," Kyle cut his rant short. He'd never seen Craig shoot off at the mouth like that before. "If you want to vent or something I'm more than happy to listen dude, but I'm not going to sit here and let you take your frustration out on me. It's not my fault you're insecure."

"I'm _not_ insecure."

"It's alright, I'm not judging you or anything. Relax." Kyle shrugged, patting Charlie on the head. Craig hated that Charlie was practically in his lap, as if he were enjoying being around Kyle more so than the person who actually took him home from the pound and fed him. More than anything though, he hated how level-headed Kyle was acting right then. "College isn't for everyone."

"Whatever."

"Besides—art school or not, it doesn't change that fact that you've probably made some awesome videos. I'd still like to check them out sometime."

Craig relaxed and nodded, letting his shoulders drop. Maybe he'd overreacted.

"And hey—maybe dropping out was even a good thing, you know? What would a degree in film production do, anyway?" Kyle continued, putting his foot right back in his mouth. "I mean, you don't need to go to college to make movies, so you're probably saving yourself a ton of wasted time and money by not going." He paused, furrowing his brows in thought. "Actually, why didn't you just go to school for a normal degree and just take film as an elective? That'd of been a lot more practical."

And just like that, Craig was reminded exactly why he couldn't stand him.

"Hey, wait," Kyle demanded when Craig pushed himself out of the booth. "Where are you going?"

But Craig didn't answer him as he stormed out the door.

* * *

Back in Manhattan, Stan fumbled with the keys to the apartment. He was on his way out to do the laundry that he should have had done yesterday, but between the Sunday night game and the two hour long marathon of _Let's Make a Deal_, he'd completely lost track of time and had forgotten all about the monumental pile of unwashed clothes in the corner of his and Kyle's shared bedroom.

Stan sighed as he locked the door and adjusted the black garbage bag full of dirty laundry over his shoulder. He wondered if Kyle would be upset that he didn't call yesterday. He'd forgotten to do that, too.

It wasn't like he didn't miss him or anything—Kyle _was_ his super best friend, after all—but he was sort of enjoying the time alone. It was nice not having to live up to someone else's expectations for a while and to just worry about himself. He loved Kyle to death, but he would be lying if he said he didn't enjoy coming home to relax on the couch with a cold one (or two) or that letting the dishes pile up in the sink without getting nagged at was kind of awesome. Hey, they'd get done eventually; just not right now.

Stan shouldered his way out the main door of their building and onto the busy sidewalk, starting off in the direction of what was hopefully the nearest laundromat. He wasn't the one who usually did the laundry, and he'd only been there twice before.

_Maybe I could make it up to him tonight. Call him while I'm waiting—_

"Shit! I'm sorry," Stan blurted when he accidentally bumped into someone, tearing him from his thoughts for a second but not stopping. His response was automatic, really—running into folks was a given on the streets of Manhattan—but it still always managed to throw him off.

"Stan?"

Stan came to a grinding halt and whipped around when he heard his name, almost hitting a passerby with the garbage bag slung over his shoulder. If he hadn't been paying attention before, he was now.

"Stan Marsh?" The person—_man_—tried again, this time a little more slowly as if they were trying to gauge his level of confusion. They were tall, around his own height but with a slightly thinner build, looking as if he'd stepped off the cover of _Aryan Race Weekly_. His medium-length blond hair was combed neatly to the right, and his pastel blue buttondown with the sleeves rolled up was tucked into his jeans, making Stan feel ridiculously underdressed in his gym shorts and faded AC/DC t-shirt. He couldn't recall ever knowing a grown ass man who had hair that blond past childhood _and_ blue eyes to boot, let alone someone who actually thought tucking their shirt into their jeans was a good idea.

"I'm sorry. Do I, uh. Know you from somewhere?"

"It's Gary! We were on the football team together?"

"Gary?" Stan couldn't believe his ears, or his eyes for that matter. It definitely looked like him, but there was no way this guy could be the same Gary that he'd gotten told off from in front of Cartman and Kyle back when they were kids, then rekindled their friendship during junior year of high school when he joined the football team seemingly out of nowhere. The same Gary that had to move during the middle of senior year to go back to Utah with his family, leaving Stan with nothing but a hug and a phone number that would eventually be out of service a year later. The same Gary that told him just two weeks before he left in hushed breaths at a mostly-empty lunch table right before the bell rang that he maybe, possibly, _might _have been—"Holy shit, dude!"

"Yeah, I could say I'm pretty surprised as well!" Gary laughed.

"Do you—how—" Stan stammered, not knowing where to possibly start. _Why haven't you called me?_ Would have probably worked just fine, but instead he settled on, "What're you doing here in New York?"

"Oh, well…" Gary was at a loss for words, which was unusual from what Stan remembered. As if he were afraid someone might've been watching, he looked over his shoulder before answering. "It's a bit of a lengthy story, really, but I guess I just needed a change of scenery."

"Yeah, I get what you mean. I just never expected you to be in a place like this, though. I thought you liked Utah because, um, you know," Stan nodded at Gary as if it were painfully obvious.

"Because I'm Mormon?"

"Uh. Yeah." In retrospect, Stan felt like an idiot. "Or not? I mean, I dunno. Like—but hey, you know, if you're actually staying around here, maybe we could hang out sometime? I kinda have a Facebook now so I could add you if you have one." The first year after high school he'd sporadically used Kyle's own Facebook account to look and see what Gary was up to, until it for some reason disappeared. "Unless that's not you're thing, I mean. Then just forget I even mentioned it."

"Stan?"

"Huh?"

"I think you're rambling, buddy."

"Oh." Stan forced a laugh. "Sorry. It's just been so long and—I guess I just don't know what to say without sounding dumb. But really dude, it'd be cool to catch up. It's been a while."

Gary shrugged, patting him on the shoulder. "Hey, don't worry about it." Stan felt like they were out on the field all over again, because this was exactly what he used to do after Stan fumbled the ball too much during a play. "But yeah, that'd be nice. There's… actually a lot of stuff that I really need to talk to you about, anyway."

"You need to talk to _me_?"

"Yeah. Actually, if you're not busy, do you want to maybe go sit down somewhere and talk now? There's this little place about four blocks from here that I've been wanting to check out the past few days, and I think now would be as good as ever." Gary suggested, palming the back of his neck nervously.

"Right now?" Stan was reminded of the heavy bag of laundry he had thrown over his shoulder. While he really did need to wash clothes, he was far more intrigued in what it was that Gary apparently needed to talk about specifically with _him_ of all people. The laundry could wait until tomorrow.

"If it's too much trouble—"

"No, now's fine. Just let me go drop this back off in my apartment, okay? I'm not exactly feeling up to dragging around dirty laundry with me. Wait right here, don't move."

"I'm not going anywhere," Gary laughed as he watched Stan retreat back into the building which he'd only came out of moments before.

Stan made quick work of leaving the laundry in the entryway and hurrying back down the steps as if he were afraid Gary would suddenly disappear into thin air once more, until his phone chimed from his pocket. He assumed it was a text from Kyle and pulled it out to read it, only to be confused when it turned out to be some sort of cryptic message from his mother.

_REALLY SAD WE HAD TO MISS YOU LAST NIGHT! DINNER WAS LOVELY. HOPE YOU'RE FEELING BETTER! LOVE, MOM._


End file.
